


Grace in the Black Water

by Cyane



Category: Breaking Bad
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, BAMF Mike, El Camino: A Breaking Bad Movie, Father-Son Relationship, Fix-It of Sorts, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Mental Health Issues, Multi, Post-Episode: s05e16 Felina, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Suicidal Thoughts, depresso espresso, we all need a skinny pete
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-28
Updated: 2019-10-17
Packaged: 2020-10-29 23:47:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,351
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20804990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cyane/pseuds/Cyane
Summary: When Mike is out, he'sout.That is, until he sees Walter White and Jesse Pinkman's faces appear on international news. Nine dead... but not Jesse.





	1. Wyoming

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story will most definitely be divergent from El Camino-- Mike is alive, and didn't die in _Say My Name_. Skinny Pete isn't picked up by law enforcement like the teaser suggests. There are some implied instances of sexual abuse/assault, both very VERY vague and brief.  
I was planning on writing several one-shots concerning Jesse and Walt and Mike a long time ago, before El Camino was announced, but now my heart just hurts and I really need to write this. So hopefully you enjoy.

Settling into quiet outskirts of Casper, Wyoming, was unsettlingly easy. Mike supposed he shouldn't be so surprised; he could make just about any situation work, fill any role he chose. As far as he and the townspeople were concerned, he was Mr. Owen Lawrence, a widower from Pennsylvania. 

Ed had been firm about him not receiving the Albuquerque papers until some time had passed, but promised that if something were to happen to either Kaylee or his daughter-in-law, he would be informed. He wasn't too worried about them, either. Money or no, he had set up precautions for their safety during certain situations. This was one of them.

Ed had also been very clear about him ignoring any 'Heisenberg-activity' going on, which was the one thing that continually nagged at Mike's mind all the while. The last time he'd seen the man, Walter had been running at him with a gun, clearly intent on shooting. He was nearly positive that all of his guys were dead, though he had no damn clue how the man had done it. That was just how Walter was-- smart and lucky and ruthless as all hell. 

And then there was the other thing that he tried not to think about. There was the matter of Jesse. 

He knew the story like the back of his hand. He'd been a cop, he knew what it meant when he saw a teacher partnering with an ex-student, and he honestly wouldn't have been surprised if Walt had been using Jesse in a more _traditional_ sense. Stockholm-syndrome described what those two idiots had pretty well. Mike had seen it a million times.

_"I'm out too, Mike,"_ Jesse said, but Mike hadn't even been sure that the kid still believed it.

_"Just take care of yourself, kid."_ And he'd walked away, hating himself for leaving Jesse with Walter White and Todd Alquist and not even looking back. He remembered giving Walter his speech on 'half-measures' and the woman whose man killed her-- and he couldn't help but see Jesse as the woman.

If that were the case, Mike was a hypocrite.

But truth be told, Walter White seemed like the type who would kill himself before letting Jesse go, because that son-of-a-bitch was just as unhealthily dependent on Jesse as Jesse was on him, and damned if he didn't drag the kid down with him while he was at it.

Every so often, 'Heisenberg-activity' reached news so far as Wyoming. Mike was sitting in the local coffeehouse one morning when an interview came on, several baffled agents discussing types of methamphetamine and how P2P-cooks were reaching the Czech Republic. _Meaning he's working with Lydia,_ Mike thought. 

"Don't you have sports?" Another man-- Ron-- asked, gesturing to the screen. "Jesus, what the hell are we watching, here?"

"It's interesting," the waitress snapped back. Then she hesitated, seeing Mike. "Unless-- unless you want me to change it too, Mr. Lawrence."

"I'm fine, Christina." Mike said. He took another sip of his coffee. He wasn't sure if he wanted to know what was happening or not. Thinking of Walter and Lydia made his blood boil like nothing else, and Jesse just made him guilty. It had been half a year since he'd gotten out, but it didn't feel that long. 

"Enjoy your dumbass news, then," Ron grumbled, slapping money on the table and walking out. Christina muttered something colorful under her breath before laughing. 

"Real piece of work, isn't he?" She slipped the money into her apron pocket and started wiping down the table. "Hey, um, Mr. Lawson, can I get you anything else? Jean's making a new batch of muffins in the back."

A part of Mike wished it hadn't been so easy to uproot his life, because all it meant was he hadn't had much of a life to begin with.

"Another coffee, if you don't mind."

His new life felt elaborately unreal, like some sort of alternate simulation. There was no drug-ring leader to threaten him, or hitman job to take care of. Nobody to keep an eye on, no one to protect. It'd gotten to the point where Mike found himself deliberately walking around the city streets at ridiculous hours, peaking into darkened alleyways. The worst he'd found was a man assaulting a woman who was out of her mind high on something, and he'd _handled_ it, made sure she wasn't on her back, and called the cops with her own phone before taking off. 

It was almost disappointing when no police showed up at his door, and apparently there were no CCTV cameras that'd gotten him.

Months passed.

He frequently stopped at Christina's bakery. She was fascinated by the Heisenberg case and went out of her way to watch news on it, and the coffee there wasn't complete garbage. Her coworker, Jean, had a big mouth, and went on and on talking about folklore and famous criminals. The most interesting thing about Heisenberg was the fact that he hadn't been caught, yet. 

"I hear they're planning to make some kind of investigative documentary on him," Christina said. "I need to get it whenever it comes out."

Jean snorted. "Probably won't be for a while. Besides, what've they got to put in it besides theories? No-- you've gotta wait until they catch him and get all the answers."

"But what if they never catch him?" Christina whined. 

Mike paid and went home before vomiting into the toilet. Against his better judgement, he went online that night to Albuquerque's news sources and read up on everything he could. 

Skyler White was on the news first. She'd made no comment, but things exploded anyway. The presumed deaths of DEA agents Hank Schrader and Steven Gomez, both missing. An amber alert for the White's infant daughter Holly, who had been kidnapped by her father and found a short time later without him. Not a single word of Lydia, or Todd, or Jesse. 

The time bomb had gone off. 

The next few days had Christina and Jean squealing over the news, exclusively playing channels from New Mexico rather than Wyoming. 

"He was a school teacher-- like, a high school teacher," Jean said. He ran a hand through his hair and grinned. "I-- this is crazy. This is _crazy_. The man had lung cancer!" 

Christina was shaking her head frantically. "No, no-- that DEA agent who is missing? Uh... Schrader? He's the man's brother-in-law! Heisenberg's brother-in-law was the _DEA agent trying to track him down!"_

Even Ron was there, along with a small crowd of customers all gathered around the television. Mike watched indifferently, although his mind was racing. No doubt Walter had used Ed's services as well, as soon as everything had turned to shit. The man could be anywhere. 

Not a word on Jesse, either. Mike told himself that was a good thing. Maybe-- maybe Jesse had gotten himself out. He could've used Ed as well-- gone to Alaska. God knew the kid had rambled on and on about damned Alaska during so many of their drives together. 

The thought brought overwhelming relief. Mike sank into his seat and sipped his coffee and tried not to feel too triumphant.

Nearly two years had passed, and that was when everything changed. 

Mike heard it first from the TV beside the gas station clerk's desk. _"Breaking news: a horrific scene with multiple victims. It started when neighbors reported hearing hundreds of gunshots fired. When Albuquerque police arrived, they discovered the bodies of nine male victims, many shot multiple times. Veteran police officers calling the level of carnage ‘staggering.’ Apparently, a remote-controlled machine gun was used in the killings. Investigators are searching for a person of interest who fled the scene. Anyone with information on this massacre is asked to call police immediately...”_

Pictures of Walter White, a headline of _'Heisenberg, found at last'_. Pictures of the Alquists' and the nazis, the compound where they'd worked, where Walter White had died. The clerk was whistling lowly. 

"Those kids over at Pat's café are gonna have a real hoot over this."

Then a picture of Jesse Pinkman appeared, and Mike felt his stomach fly into his throat. It wasn't the Jesse he knew; this kid had a head of hair and bright eyes like diamonds, without any of the hollowed-cheeks or tired rings under his eyes or constant bruising around the face-- this was a Jesse from years past. 

_"--a large underground cell was also found, where investigators found DNA from Jesse Bruce Pinkman, a known associate of White. Although his involvement is unclear, officials suspect that Pinkman was involved in the manufacture of methamphetamine and is a person of interest. Although White is dead, the search continues for Pinkman--"_

Mike stared at the image of a sunken cage in the ground, a filthy mattress and blanket within. The long warehouse filled with lab equipment where Jesse had no doubt been cooking. 

Without a word, he left. He finally knew the way to go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am planning on writing another chapter to go along with this, maybe more depending on where it goes from there, but nothing is finished or set in stone right now. It depends on how inspired I am/how the reception to the first chapter goes.


	2. Colorado

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the kind words on chapter one, very unexpected + appreciated. I should note again that this is my first proper BrBa fic and I am pretty anxious about this so I really hope you guys like the continuation. <3 At ~2.6k words, it kind of got away from me.
> 
> Anyway, I'll stop rambling. Enjoy!

It was the same feeling he'd felt that night, so many years ago, back in Philadelphia. Walking into that damn room and seeing a bloodied blender lying on the floor in a pool of the stuff, and the woman's wet hair slicked across her head.

It wasn't like a shock of pain, but rather a throbbing ache of deep regret. Of _how can I go back and do it again?_

Mike knew better than to linger on the thought. He just pressed down on the gas and drove. 

Leaving Casper was easier than arriving, too-- driving away from two years of his life, like they never happened. He didn't think twice about the fact that he'd never be seeing his neighbors again, listening to Jean and Christina, watching Ms. Barnelli's dog while she was away.

His beat-up Volvo passing into Colorado felt like waking up from a vivid two-year dream. Like he'd opened his eyes and remembered exactly what he'd been missing. 

(Honestly-- what had he been thinking? That he would just settle down in a small town for the rest of his life and live until he died? Keep getting coffee and pretending to be Owen Lawrence? It made him think of Walter, and fuck if he didn't want to think about the man. The business, the life-- it sunk its claws in and made wounds that couldn't be walked away from.)

After leaving the gas station, he went back to the house he'd been living in and spent an hour tracking down everyone who might be of use, any living person with any kind of connection to Jesse.

He started with the kid's old friends-- Peter Baker and Brandon Mayhew-- Wendy Minesci, Andrea Cantillo, some members from the kid's rehab group, and even located his family despite having no intention of going after them. There wasn't a doubt in his mind that the Pinkman family was already in contact with police, if they weren't being held for the time being. 

And then he drove.

_"--the search continues for Pinkman, this morning--"_

_"--Skyler White, now Skyler Lambert, the ex-wife of methamphetamine kingpin Walter White, AKA Heisenberg, has given police the location of DEA agents Hank Schrader and Steven Gomez's burial site in exchange for--"_

_"--are asking how something of this scale could possibly--"_

Gritted his teeth and kept his foot firmly on the gas.

He drove for hours, only slowing in areas that it seemed likely to have speeding traps or cops. 

Mike was halfway from Colorado Springs to Walsenburg when his guy called back. Mike immediately knew something was up, because Patrick hesitated, and he didn't just _hesitate_. One of his hands tightened around the cell phone and the other around the wheel. 

"What is it?" 

_"...you wanted to know about Andrea Cantillo?"_

"Yeah. What, you need me to spell it out for you?"

_"Mike, I don't know what you want with her, but-- and don't blame the messenger, here-- says here she was killed a while back. Shot dead on her doorstep. Haven't you heard? This has to do with that Pinkman case, doesn't it?" _

Mike tried not to skid the car as he pulled off to the shoulder. His lungs felt tight. "Tell me exactly what happened, Patrick. Now," he said through gritted teeth. 

_"Jack told me they found her picture at that compound where White died. You know, the big nazi meth lab shindig? Found her picture hanging on the wall, her and her son. Think it's gotta all be connected somehow, this Heisenberg thing and the murder."_

"She's dead," Mike said.

_"Uh, yeah. Mike? You need anything else?"_

"What about-- the son, her son? Brock. He alive?"

_"Think so, Jackson would've told me if he was gone too. I dunno where he is, though. Probably some foster home or somethin'. Need me to check?"_

Mike was already shaking his head. A ringing had started in his eardrums, piercing sound echoing inside his head. "Don't bother. I'll be in touch."

Without waiting for a response, he hung up. He moved to take back hold of the wheel and continue on his way, but stopped when he saw his hand trembling in front of the plastic.

It wasn't so much the death. (Which was horrible in of itself, but he had known for a long time that death was just another shitty part of the work. It didn't matter how much he cared _deep down_ about Victor or that kid, Drew Sharp. At the end of the day he'd still dissolve their bodies in barrels without so much as blinking.) It was more about the connotation of what her death entailed.

_It's never been my job to keep the kid safe, _Mike told himself, knowing full well he didn't believe it. _And it's not my fault if Jesse couldn't see Walter for the monster he was. _

"Shit," he hissed under his breath, pressing his knuckles to his mouth and willing his hands to stop shaking. "Shit, shit, _shit!" _

There was another thought going through his mind-- one that was more unwanted, a dark little seed of a thought that Mike was afraid to look too closely at. The one that wondered if it was even a remotely good idea for him to go searching for Jesse. 

Schrader, Gomez, Cantillo, Welker, and then Todd and Walter, all dead. Even without any ethical qualm he had over seeing the kid, getting in touch while the cops were all over the case was looking for trouble in of itself. 

On the other hand, it was preferable to sitting on his ass in a diner drinking coffee and watching it all unfold over the television. 

It was better than doing nothing for a second time. 

Jesse Pinkman was the last thing connecting Owen Lawrence to Mike Ehrmantraut, and if he was sure of anything, it was that he needed to find the kid. If nothing else, do what he should've done so many years ago and at least help the kid get away from the shitshow.

Cantillo’s death had either been seen to directly by Walter or, more likely, by the white supremacist group that had been keeping Jesse-- another thing to add to the seemingly ever growing pile of trauma the kid had-- and without knowing the full extent of his physical and mental wellbeing, Mike had no real way of preparing for what he would find. 

He forced himself to take a breath. 

The Colorado sky turned sunflower-gold above him. His eyes stung with the effort of keeping them open.The drive from Casper to Albuquerque over the I-25 was just over ten hours without stopping, and he was beginning to think that the tremor in his hands wasn’t just an emotional reaction, either. With another frustrated grunt, Mike twisted the wheel around to get back on the main road and find somewhere to stop. 

Time spent on the road gave him time to get back into the swing of things, find old contacts, and locate who he needed to locate, but it also gave him plenty of time to _think. _Mike lay down on top the shitty motel bedsheets and wondered if Jesse had been the one to kill Walter. He almost wished that were the case, just so to find the satisfaction in imagining that monster's face when the kid turned on him. But he also remembered how shaken Jesse had been after killing Gale Boetticher, right before Victor died.

No. The kid wasn't a killer.

The kid _hadn't_ been a killer, anyway. Not when Mike met him. 

Even after he had taken his first life, Mike remembered Jesse jumping to defend Drew Sharp and Walter and even Lydia. It was almost ironic that every single person Jesse tried to save ended up dead.

"Jesus," he mumbled, running a hand over his scalp. He hadn't even noticed before, but a headache had slowly been building in the back of his head and it had evolved into a painful ache. Going back to New Mexico was like taking a chisel and smashing into every had memory he'd tucked away. He couldn't stop thinking about Kaylee and Stacey, either. 

All of them thought he was dead, including his family and Jesse.

Mike Ehrmantraut was very much alive, and he had work to do.

The first place Mike headed after reaching Albuquerque was the Crossroads Motel, a shithole on the corner of 10th central avenue. Patrick had mentioned Jesse being a frequent customer and seller in there.

Mike knew he wouldn’t find the kid there, after everything-- and especially if he was in hiding-- but it was still his first stop because of one particular person. 

The place was filthy and housed filthy people, and Mike knew he was in the right place if he was looking for Wendy Minesci’s place of business. He remembered doing a background on the woman after Fring ordered him to, back when Jesse had been using her to give ricin to Thomás Cantillo’s murderers.

She was definitely sharper than she looked, but ultimately not a threat or suspect. 

Mike sat in the Volvo a block away, mindlessly skimming through the Albuquerque Papers. It was an issue Ed had already sent him in Casper. 

Across the road, a tall blonde woman who had to be Wendy leaned into the front seat of a Cadillac in the parking lot. Eventually the car pulled away, Wendy in tow, and returned fifteen minutes later to drop her off. 

She shot the driver her middle finger as she walked back to the vending machines. Mike took his opportunity. 

“What’cha here for?” Wendy asked, dipping her head into his car window when he pulled up. 

“Not what you’re thinking,” Mike said, “but I’ll pay you better for this anyway.”

“Menu only.” Wendy said quickly. “I don’t do none of that weird shit. Doesn’t matter how much for.” 

“Just information.” Her brow furrowed, so Mike continued. “About Jesse Pinkman.”

Wendy’s eyes went wide and her posture taut. “Uh, who?” 

“Jesse Pinkman. I’m surprised you don’t remember him. He was going to have you murder two men, after all.”

She might’ve been a damn bad liar, but Mike had to give her credit for holding her ground. He knew that she had been the one Agent Schrader tried-- and failed-- to interrogate. On behalf of Jesse, too, which might actually work in Mike’s favor. 

“I’m not here to get you in trouble. I just need to know where he’s at. Have you seen him?”

“No.” 

“I know he was your friend. We have a mutual interest, here, in keeping him out of trouble.” 

Wendy narrowed her eyes, thinking it over. “You said you’d pay? I wanna see it first.” 

Mike grabbed a fold of dollar bills he’d tucked away in a cup holder and handed it to her. “That’s five-seventy.”

“Even six,” she demanded. 

“Are you going to just keep pushing that number or can we do this the easy way?”

“Even six, that’s all.”

Mike gave her a look before obliging. At the end of the day, this woman cared about Jesse and he was sure the kid cared about her too. Violence wouldn't help anything. He gave her thirty more and she held it close.

“Okay, you’ve got your money. Now talk.”

“I haven’t seen him."

“How exactly does that help me?”

“I never said it would! That’s the truth, though,” Wendy snapped. Her whole body seemed to vibrate and Mike wondered if he’d just given her the money she’d needed to overdose. 

“Jesse’s a good guy,” she said. “I don’t wanna see him get locked up. But I don’t know anything either, and that’s all.”

“Fine. Any spot you know of where he might’ve gone?”

“California, maybe.” 

It was clear that she wouldn’t be any more help than that, so after half-heartedly thanking her, Mike mentally ticked off her name and moved on down the list. The next closest stop was Peter Baker's house.

Mike found himself vaguely wishing that Saul was still around as he drove through the city. Things had been so much simpler with the lawyer. And Fring. And everything before Walter White.

Mike was an expert in finding people, even and especially when they didn't want to be found, but Peter 'Skinny Pete' Baker hadn't even moved houses for the past three years. He wasn't a hard man to find.

Mike had scouted the place out already, not a cop or hit in a three block radius. There was another car in the driveway, with registration that Patrick had traced back to one Brandon Mayhew. 

Soft light poured out from between the shutters of a nearby window. Mike approached the front porch.

He hesitated before reaching out and ringing the doorbell. From inside the house there was a bump and several loud-whispers. Mike couldn't stop his fingers from twitching towards his pocket. There wasn't even a gun to grab, anyway; he'd tossed all of them before he'd left. 

The door cracked open.

An unfamiliar face looked back at him.

"Peter Baker, I presume?" Mike asked, wishing he sounded calmer than he felt.

His heart was pounding in his chest-- the urge to shove the door open and barge his way inside and tear the house apart until he found Jesse was almost overwhelming.

Peter glared at him, eyes narrowed distrustfully. From the narrow slit in the doorway he looked Mike up and down. "What do you want?"

Mike's eyes flickered around the small portions of the house he _could _see. A reddish couch, maybe. A filthy faux-tiffany lamp on one of the tables. Yellow light that barely illuminated the cluttered rooms within. 

"You a cop?" Peter asked before Mike could respond. His hand tightened its hold on the edge of the door. "'Cause I haven't done nothin' wrong here." 

"Not a cop," Mike said, which was technically the truth.

"Why the hell are you--"

"Skinny, who is it?" 

Mike had to swallow down the blur of momentary hope that bubbled into his throat-- but the new voice didn't belong to Jesse.

Just behind Peter's head, he could make out another boy's face. This one was wearing a red beanie and had curly brown hair, but maintained a similar expression of wariness. It had to be Brandon Mayhew, then. 

"Shh!" Peter hissed, gesturing for his friend to go. Then, turning back to Mike, "I don't care who you are, just-- leave." 

"I will leave, just after you answer me a few questions."

"We don't know anything, man," Brandon said loudly, earning another look from Peter. "What? We _don't!"_

"Somehow I doubt that," Mike muttered.

Clearly he'd found his lead onto wherever the kid had run off to-- _it's only a matter of getting it out of these two idiots first,_ he thought. "Listen, let's not pretend that we aren't all aware of what's happened to a certain mutual friend of ours. Tell me where he went."

"I don't know who you're talking about," Peter said flatly. 

"We don't know anybody," Brandon added helpfully. 

_This is getting old fast, _Mike thought.

"I know you're trying to defend him, but listen to me--"

There was a small thud, and all three of them whipped around to see the cause.

Utter silence fell. Mike could make out a shadowy figure slowly step into the room beside Brandon, and he felt his heart stop. 

"Mike?" 

The voice was tiny and hoarse. The figure took a few steps forward, but the light barely made him more recognizable. If Mike hadn't been looking, he probably wouldn't have. His hair was long and matted, he was filthy, there were long lines running up and down his face-- but there was no doubt about it. 

Jesse Pinkman.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we've finally found Jesse!  
Initially I added a scene where Mike went to Badger's house and found Badger's cat. It was way too long and meaningless, but I really enjoyed writing it. :')
> 
> I really hope that this chapter doesn't come across as rushed. I also really hope the voices for Bader/Skinny Pete/Wendy sounded at least somewhat authentic, too. 
> 
> This story just keeps growing, lol. Not my intention. More to come. I hope you guys liked this one. (▰˘◡˘▰)


	3. New Mexico

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not dead! Sorry for being nearly two weeks late, El Camino sort of tore me to pieces. 
> 
> So... this fic is pretty much a (lamer, easier, shorter) version of El Camino from Mike's POV, I guess. There's more in common than I expected, but entirely less complex. The whole point of this fic was to have some interactions between Jesse and Mike after everything had happened, not a gripping action story-- so, sorry if that's disappointing to anyone. <3 (But I am 100% game for talking about El Camino/BrBa generally if anyone wants to!)
> 
> As always thanks for reading and enjoy!

Mike's grandmother had owned a Tiffany lamp. 

He remembered seeing the colorful slices of stained glass on it when he was young. It hadn’t been a true Tiffany either, but it was appropriately hideous and had matched everything else in that house and his grandmother had _adored _the thing. 

When he was eleven, he watched his cousin Richard throw it onto the kitchen tile-- furious after their grandmother had accidentally hit his dog with her car. The broken pieces of ceramic and glass were buried under the porch floorboards, and Mike hadn’t said a word. Not as he watched his senile grandma tearing up her own house looking for it, not at her funeral, not at Richie’s funeral. 

He couldn’t stop thinking about that damn lamp.

Even on a good day Mike wasn’t much of a conversationalist, but as he stared at the ghost of a man before him he found himself well and truly at a loss for words.

Looking at Jesse was a bit like staring into a funhouse mirror; of course Mike knew that logically, that Jesse was the same human being. He had the identifying scorpion tattoo curled around his wrist, the same nose structure.

But Mike sat down on Brandon’s ratty old couch and looked at the kid, and was sure he was looking into the eyes of a stranger.

Jesse didn’t just look older-- he looked _aged_, physically bearing the effects of his time in hell. There was no sign of the overbearing, dramatic, innocent boy who Mike had grown grudgingly fond of. 

Not much was left to the imagination, either, given the long scars had been drawn across Jesse’s face. Mike’s mind was rapidly filling in the blanks, painting a rather horrible picture of what he’d missed. 

_ What the hell did those bastards do to you? _

“You’re alive?” Jesse croaked, sliding into an adjacent chair. His voice was ragged, nasally with disuse. 

“I’m alive,” Mike said. 

Peter finished re-locking the front door and returned to his perch beside Brandon. Both boys hovered nervously behind the couch. 

“So… you two know each other?”

Jesse had his forehead in his hands and made no move to reply, so Mike gave a tired nod. “Yeah, we know each other.”

“Fuck,” Jesse rasped. “_Fuck,_ I thought…”

Previously forgotten anger began bubbling inside him at the memory of Walter storming back towards his car, gun drawn. “He tried. Shot the hell out of my front window, but didn’t get much farther than that. I got out.”

The unspoken other half of that statement hung in the air. _But you didn’t._

“He’s dead,” Jesse said after a few long minutes. “You heard?”

“Yeah.” _Good fucking riddance._

Looking like he wasn’t quite sure what to do with that information himself, Jesse turned away. “You’ve been watching the news, then?”

“I have. I came the second I saw.”

Brandon shifted from behind the couch, folding his arms across his chest. “Wait, did you know where Jesse was this whole time? And you only came now?" 

Sharp excuses rose in his throat, but made it no further because the words were only giving voice to Mike’s guilty conscious. 

He had known Jesse was still out there with Walt when he bid them adieu. He’d heard Walter ignoring the kid’s requests to leave. He knew that the timebomb was going to go off. 

Only to tell himself that Jesse had managed to get out on his own after Mike had left. That it wasn’t his responsibility, but--

“It’s not his fault.”

“Jesse-”

“It’s _not_, alright?”

Brandon and Peter exchanged a look. Brandon backed down. “Okay, Jess. Anyway, you two probably have a lot to talk about, so we’ll just…” he motioned for Peter to follow him, but the other wasn’t moving. His eyes were still narrowed, glued onto Mike. 

Clearly, loyalty was a trait that ran in the group, and Mike couldn’t even find it in himself to be irritated. If anything, he was glad there was someone else in the world who was even the tiniest bit concerned about the kid’s wellbeing. 

“Jesse?” 

Jesse glanced back at his friend. “Yeah, I’m-- he’s fine, Skinny. Thanks.”

With one last _you-even-think-about-hurting-him _look towards Mike, they finally wandered off towards the kitchen, voices dropping to low whispers as they left Mike and Jesse alone in the main room. 

_How can I even begin to fix this?_

“I’m gonna get you out of this,” Mike said. “I promise.”

Jesse’s expression screamed disbelief, but he didn’t argue. He leaned back down to rest his forehead in his hands and Mike noticed his waistband, where the clear outline of a gun rested. Jesse began shaking his head again. “I can’t believe you’re alive.” 

“It’s not that easy to get rid of me.”

“I’m glad,” Jesse said. It was uncomfortably honest.

“Yeah, well, I couldn’t give that bastard the satisfaction.” 

One of Jesse’s hands was running methodically over his forearm, dragging a torn nail down the shirtsleeve. In a fucked-up way, the tremors in his hand reminded Mike of a lifetime ago, sitting in a diner with Jesse and watching his hands clutch at a spoon that rattled against the side of his coffee. The kid’s constant energy. 

Before, it had been endearing. Now it just made Mike’s chest hurt.

“Your--” the word seemed to die in Jesse’s mouth. Mike watched him struggle to speak. “How are they?”

“How are who?”

Jesse hesitated, looking pained. “Your family,” he said finally. “Kaylee. Are they… are they okay? He didn’t…?”

Mike didn’t have to ask who _he_ was.

Despite himself, Mike felt slightly speechless. “They’re fine,” he managed. “Probably assume I died, but that’s... for the best.”

Jesse nodded slowly. “I tried to get money to them,” he admitted. “My share.”

Jesse, giving money to Kaylee. The ringing in Mike’s ears was returning with a vengeance, but he must’ve made some sort of surprised noise because Jesse continued.

“Two-point-five million. I was giving the other half to...” Jesse swallowed. “I ended up throwing it out my car window. Right off Monik drive and central.”

“I’m sure Walter liked that,” Mike replied carefully. His head was spinning. 

Jesse laughed humorlessly. “He had Saul take me out to the desert. I thought--” his voice broke off, and he slid his fingers back over his eyes. “Jesus, Mike. _Fuck_. Fuck, he--” 

Later, when Mike thought back on the conversation, he would swear he could remember the temperature of the room dropping a few degrees.

“He poisoned Brock,” Jesse whispered, his entire body trembling like an aspen. 

Mike’s jaw snapped shut. 

Of course he’d heard about Brock Cantillo. Jesse used to talk about him and his mother with the most hopeful expression on his face, talked about getting out and living a quiet life. Having a family.

After doing backgrounds on the whole family and finding nothing particularly worrying, Mike had left it at that. 

He knew that Brock had been hospitalized while Mike was still recovering in Mexico, and figured that it was part of the reason Jesse had turned against Fring; more emotional instability that Walter had preyed on. 

But everything was clicking into place-- Walt poisoning Brock, framing Fring. 

How different would things have been if Mike hadn’t been shot that day they killed Don Eladio. If they had gone back to New Mexico together, and Walter hadn’t had the chance to nab Fring. 

“Kid--”

“He killed Jane,” Jesse continued, voice rising. Mike froze.

“What?” _Jane Margolis? But that--_

Jesse didn't seem to hear him. “They killed...” he couldn’t force the words out, but Mike knew he was thinking about Andrea.

Losing even one loved one could change a person forever. Mike knew that from his own experience-- he certainly hadn't been the same after Matty. But Jesse hasn’t just lost one person, though, he’d lost _everyone_, at one point or another. And Mike couldn’t think of one single thing that hadn’t directly or indirectly been Walter White’s fault.

The situation was snowballing. Jesse curled in on himself as he started hyperventilating. His hands clutched at his head. Huge, dry gasps ripped out of his throat.

At the sound, Brandon and Peter had both rushed back in and Brandon immediately reached out to put a comforting hand on Jesse’s shoulder.

“Jesse?” 

“Don’t touch me!” Jesse snarled.

Brandon retracted his hand like he’d been burned, confused worry shining in his eyes. 

Mike’s eyes flicked down to where the gun was, still tucked in Jesse’s pants. Before things could escalate further, he reached out and took it, emptying the barrel in seconds and putting the handful of bullets into his front pocket. 

Jesse leaped away with a shout as Mike grabbed the gun, eyes widening and glazing over. 

“Jesse--” Brandon tried again.

“Get away from him,” Mike snapped. Both boys obeyed immediately.

Without anyone to lash out at, Jesse backed up until his back hit the wall before sliding down and pulling his knees to his chin. Incomprehensible mumbles poured from his mouth like oil. 

Several minutes passed like that, with Brandon and Peter too scared to move and Mike waiting for Jesse to retain some kind of grasp on reality. He’d seen men there before, when they looked around but they saw another world. Finally, Jesse’s dry gasps turned into wet sobs.

It was like a fever breaking. 

The first to run forward at the sight of tears was Peter, who came down to kneel beside his friend. He held a hand out, and when Jesse didn’t flinch away, he wrapped a light arm around his back.

“Yo, Jesse… you’re good, man, you’re good…”

“Jesus,” Brandon mumbled, looking ill.

Mike had to agree. He looked down at the boys and had never hated Walter White more.

The three of them couldn’t relax until Jesse finally passed out on Peter’s bed. 

“He’s actually doing better than he was when he first got here, if you can believe it,” Brandon said. 

“He came here immediately afterwards?”

“Few hours, maybe, that’s all,” Peter said.

“Give me a timeline.”

“Uh, sure. Came to my door two nights ago. Late. He was in a bad way, man-- I mean, _real_ bad. We saw the news and all. He slept for like, I dunno, fifteen hours? Then he woke up.”

“He ate all of our fritos, too.” Brandon added. “After we hid the El Camino in the garage, he drank like, two entire gallons of water before stopping. And I mean two _gallons_\--”

“Wait, the what?”

Brandon paused. “The fritos?”

“The El Camino, dipshit!” Peter whacked him on the arm. “Yeah, Jesse pulled up in this real nice El Camino. Red and black.”

Mike bit the inside of his cheek, doing his best to control his impatience. “And you hid it?”

“Yeah. In the garage.” 

He sat back, thinking. Jesse had already been there for two days and the cops hadn’t found him, which was a good sign— but Mike had no real way of cleaning up evidence like he had always done before. Not when he was a missing person and any failure could lead to Jesse being taken in. 

Things were too unpredictable, and Mike didn't care for unpredictability.

“What do we do?” Peter asked. “I mean, shit, they kept him--” he lowered his voice to a harsh whisper. “They kept him in a fucking _cage_.”

Mike sighed. “To state the obvious, he can’t stay in New Mexico. The longer he stays the more danger he’s in.”

“Mexico?” Brandon suggested.

“It’s what they’ll expect.”

“Well… where, then?”

And that was the question, wasn’t it? 

He waited for Peter and Brandon to reluctantly go to sleep before making another call to Patrick. The line picked up after one ring.

_ "Yeah?” _

“I have a situation,” Mike said flatly. “And I’m most likely going to need to get out of town, if you catch my drift.”

_ ”You need a to-go bag?” _

“Make it two. I’ve got someone with me.”

There was a beat of silence. _”Mike, please tell me this isn’t what I think it is.”_

“I didn’t pay you to ask questions.”

_ ”I know, but… Pinkman is hot right now, Mike. You know that. The whole damn country is looking for him. I know Ed isn’t really an option for you again, but--” _

“Two to-go bags, Patrick. I don’t have a location yet but we can’t cross the border with things like they are unless you know someone I don’t. We’ll meet you on the west coast within the next few days.”

_ ”The west coast of America is a big area, Mike. Care to narrow it down?” _

“Depends on where we’re going. Plan on California. I’ll call tomorrow.”

He could practically see Patrick running an exasperated hand over his face. _”The things I do, you son-of-a-bitch. Fine, California, you’ve got it.”_

Mike waited for him to hang up. For the rest of the night, he sat on the couch, staring at the lamp across from him. The shade was dotted in blue, yellow, and red pieces of glass, forming a mosaic of abstract flowers. His grandmother’s had looked similar. He wondered if the shards of the lamp were still buried underneath the porch. 

Mike began to understand what Richie had been feeling, the day he broke the thing. Some primal part of him wanted to grab the lamp by the base and smash it against the wall. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hopefully this was good??? I'm not sure how to feel about this chapter. I know it was a lot of dialogue, sorry about that. Not sure why I put so much emphasis on the Tiffany lamp detail except for some personal reasons, but I hope you guys liked it.
> 
> Also can I just say it is so weird calling them 'Brandon' and 'Peter'? But I can't imagine Mike thinking of them as Badger and Skinny Pete, and I didn't want to just use last names because for this story's purposes I made up Skinny's last name.
> 
> I figure chapter four will probably be the end of this little story, although I'm thinking about it up into a chapter and a small epilogue. I've grown to love GITBW, but I really want to get back to several other Jesse!centric plotlines I've been dancing around.


End file.
